


and ached into belief

by Catherines_Collections



Series: inventing your presence [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Body Worship, Breathplay, Codependency, Depression, M/M, Touring, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited, it’s really not That dark lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 04:56:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15135581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherines_Collections/pseuds/Catherines_Collections
Summary: Most times, Pete figures he begins wherever Patrick decides to push him back into his skin.





	and ached into belief

**Author's Note:**

> i only want sympathy in the form of you, crawling into bed with me.  
>  
> 
> i own nothing, series title is from an Clarice Lispector quote, and every inch is absolute fiction— enjoy.

 

Pete feels like he’s vibrating.

All fingers attempting to shake out of his skin and into something theoretical.

He’s seconds away from watching his mind disconnect from his body and turn into nothing but shadows of shapes and colors he can picture but still doesn’t have names for.

Pete is fingertips skirting bass strings and heartbeat in the ears, tongue thick in his throat as his mind _buzzes buzzes buzzes_ along to their demo tape, falling into Patrick’s voice when it cuts through the static. He melts into it, closes his eyes and let’s the tape run it’s course through consumption.

When the music cuts off, they edit what they can and send it in with shaky hands and half formed hopes. It’s an unceremonious end to a fragile-barely-there beginning, but they all grasp onto it like a lifeline.

They leave soon after they’ve submitted their tapes and Pete watches the studio pass in Joe’s van window, flying down the highway. 

Joe turns back to them from the front seat, smiling and says, “I have a good feeling about this one, dudes.”

Andy hums, hands on the wheel as he merges into the left lane while Patrick doesn’t look up from the window, braced beside Pete. It’s not a metaphor for something if he doesn’t go looking for it. 

There’s a million things Pete is bracing for, and too many of them are crawling across his skin as he leans into Patrick’s shoulder, sinking when Patrick leans back.

Pete’s smile rises unbidden as he _tsk,_ winks at Joe and says, “Promises, promises.”

Patrick tilts his head back and closes his eyes against Pete’s shoulder when Joe huffs. The ride doesn’t feel so long then.

 

.

 

They’re going on a week since submission and Pete can’t stop thinking about the tapes.

He feels like his anxiety’s visible on his skin. That if anyone was to look close enough they could see his veins beating out the rhythm of _fraud,_ blood pumping to the tune of _liar liar liar._

None of it feels solid. More like it’s bound to slip away at the mention of thought, and that none of it will stay— record deal or no. And he’s not alone in it.

Before there’s even a trace they’re going to make it, Patrick tells him, “I don’t know how this is going to last.”  
  
And the kid has a point, he makes sense. Pete tucks the words onto a note sewn into his pocket and wears it everywhere: a constant reminder of _what if_ , like a brand of doubt.

Patrick fights with Pete over every lyric change, Joe with each chord transition, and Andy just sits back and watches— doesn’t take it when Patrick critiques, has been in the scene long enough to know when to let someone fume, but it’s something close.

They’re all good at fantasy and getting better, and Pete’s good at picking pieces out of separate puzzles, trying to make them fit into a new one no one else really sees until it’s done. He’s still trying to see this one, and it feels like looking into a kaleidoscope and falling through all the different ends.

 _Arma_ wasn’t revolutionary, but it was something different he was able to make work until it didn’t, and _Fall Out Boy_ holds the same amount of pieces but different connections that makes it ring _special_ and Pete’s still trying to tie it together.

Their golden ticket is wearing the face of a high-schooler trying his hand at the hard core scene when _pop_ and _hip-hop_ aren’t pushing it for him, and it’s funny in a stun gun too-slow-to-avoid sort of way that Pete’s holding onto.  
  
The secret is that Pete doesn't know how it’s going to last either.

It feel right, feels real and like he can practically taste fame on his tongue, every chord and lyric and glance feels _meant_ after it’s happened, but that doesn’t mean it was built to last. His mind’s heavy with the weight of it.

They don’t get the tape back.

Instead, they get a call from the label telling them they want to sign _Fall Out Boy_ , and Pete launches himself into Patrick’s arms mid-call. Andy takes the phone from him, and Pete buries his face into Patrick’s chest, just breathes _in_ and _out_ and _Patrick_ until Andy puts down the phone, looking slightly mystified.

“Friday,” Andy says, blinks when they all continue to stare, no one making a move. “They want to sign us in their office— _Friday_.”

The room’s silent when Patrick starts to laugh, and it’s shortly followed by a stream of curses and shouts.

Nothing really changes besides the chemicals flowing through their veins- how dopamine empties itself into their minds, and serotonin starts to take its toll.

They practice and Patrick corrects and Pete writes, and somehow it all doesn’t implode. If he didn’t know better, Pete thinks he’d almost call it, sitting between Joe and Andy on their ratty couch as Patrick tunes his guitar for their new producer’s showcase, _perfect_.

Pete doesn't know perfection, but he tries to piece parts of Patrick’s between his teeth and make it hold. Sometimes, he thinks it sticks.  
  
When they first get signed, Pete sees what he couldn’t get to stick reflected in Patrick’s awe, Joe’s shout, and the corners of Andy’s smile. Tangible turns into material in the form of print record contracts and his tongue stings like he’s burnt it. His whole body is a mine field of possibilities and unsought chemical consequences just waiting to blow.

The deal’s amount of possibilities are unpredictable and inescapable all at once and it almost makes everything sweeter, makes his fingernails dig deeper into the grip of the pen when he signs his name. Pete watches black ink slide and drip onto well composed white and time rearranges itself in fragments.

Joe’s shouting outside of the office, after. Andy smiles so hard his face twists with it, and Patrick’s laughter echoes when Pete pulls him in by the hand and kisses both his cheeks, winks and says, “For luck,” when Patrick just grins.  
  
The secret is that it isn’t going to last, but no one but Pete needs to know that. They get signed, they practice until their fingers bleed, and Pete doesn’t lift his pen from his journal the entire time.

Pete buys them a bottle of peach vodka to celebrate. Patrick and Joe are too young and Pete’s old enough to know better, especially after Andy gives him a look. Pete still sets out the glasses.

It almost doesn’t feel like a preemptive apology. Almost.

 

.

 

Pete doesn’t remember the first time he kisses Patrick, just that it’s dark and they’re both sweating and he can feel Patrick’s smile curl on his lips.

It becomes a common occurrence somewhere along the lines, before anyone has a chance to question it. Pete’s touchy and Patrick’s tolerant: nothing broken, nothing given.

Pete knows he should probably feel guilty about it- twisting up strings in Patrick’s mind when he’s still trying to connect them, blurring the lines between friendship and _Pete_ where they shouldn’t be crossed.

Pete leads and Patrick follows and no one calls it a problem, so Pete doesn’t either.

They’re playing some dive bar on the skirts of Chicago, one where some of the audience knows their names, and they’re wild with it. Pete’s hands are shaking before they take the stage, he bites at the inside of his lip until it bleeds, and then distracts himself by making Patrick’s do the same.

He doesn’t account for how much Patrick needs his lips to sing, watches the red flow over onto his teeth until it’s practically pooling, and ends up with his own split lip and a furious Patrick for his efforts. They get called on right after so Pete skips the ice, careful not to look at Patrick when they hit the stage.

Pete grabs the mic from the stand and wraps both hands around it, screams, “ _I_ _hope you’re fucking ready_ ,” and the crowd’s pumped up enough on booze and the limited space that they’re practically vibrating by the time his fingers touch the base strings.

After, Patrick tells the band Pete has a taste for elegance on his tongue.

It’s meant to be a joke, with the way Joe snorts, but then Andy turns away to pack, and Patrick sends Pete a look that’s all teeth once the words are out.

Patrick rolls his tongue on the words, and Pete’s laugh cuts him off before he can say anything else. It’s a warning that Patrick takes with a smile oozing charm as he crawls into the van, and Pete doesn’t stop thinking about the flash of something across his face when Pete bit his lip open.

Patrick isn’t seventeen anymore and Pete’s pushing more and more past twenty, and sometimes it gets hard to remember that. But now, driving from a bar drifting the edges of Chicago, he remembers like the fact’s burnt into his skin, and the night air is easy enough to blame for the shiver down running down his back.

Patrick gave him a flash of something Pete didn’t know he had and now he can’t stop looking for it.

Pete watches through auditions, bus tours, late night practice sessions, and sometimes it looks like Patrick's watching back. Sometimes, he looks like the same Patrick who turned his lips into blades, and Pete _presses presses presses,_ tests his luck until it’s a string ready to break from how thin it’s become.

Pete clings and Patrick indulges and no one questions any of it.

Patrick snaps back into blades outside the van at a near abandon gas station- Pete on the pavement with Patrick’s hands wrapped around his throat.

Patrick _squeezes_ until his knuckles go white and Pete shudders, feels his eyes go glassy and vision blur. He gives until Patrick pulls back with a kick to his ribs and snarl sealed with spit that lands on his cheek.

Pete closes his eyes, hears Patrick’s footsteps across the pavement. When he runs a hand down his throat he swallows slow, heavy and dry, and hopes Patrick’s watching.

Three days later, he crowds Patrick into the back-lit bathroom of their latest gig and falls to his knees. He lets Patrick pull his hair until it burns his scalp, and moves until his throat’s worn raw.

Pete closes his eyes with Patrick covering him everywhere and feels his mind go quiet

 

.

 

Their rise is more of a stumble of luck into the right directions, meeting the right people, charming the ones who might one day be. _Grave_ gives the producers something to work with while they put together their new album, and they all bleed their way through it.

Patrick doesn’t like playing the game, so Pete plays it for him. It’s stage acts and fake smiling and conducting nervous energy into his fingertips, playing it out at shows and after parties. He plays it out until it combusts, and next week's headlines wear his name in a mix of disbelief and condensing amusement.

Pete’s older in years but Patrick acts it better on both sides of the public view. Their marketing team loves it. The band doesn’t.

Andy’s the one who tells him. It’s the world that knows but Andy’s the voice and that makes it better, bearable, when he says, “They’re just kids, Pete. Take it easy on them, alright?”

He doesn’t have to say Patrick’s name for Pete to understand, and he’s grateful even though he doesn’t show it, shrugs Andy off and smiles politely through their next interview. Pokes and prods through each question until he’s the one shining, tunes out the scratching inside his mind at every smile.

Patrick shies back into himself at the first opportunity, and his blush matches his careful smile. He’s sweet all over and the interviewer falls into it.

Pete tells him so, after, tucks them both into a small side closet and takes hold of Patrick’s face, brushing his cheekbones with his thumbs and blurts, “You suck at this.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and Pete presses his thumbs in, adds, “Can’t keep keeping all the gold for yourself, you know. It’s nice to share.”

Patrick’s eyes narrow and Pete’s body buzzes, starts to follow his mind. Pete doesn’t have to ask, Patrick just _does,_ face flashing something like the gas station expression as he darts forward.

Pete twists it from tongue to teeth,  leans back as Patrick wanders and stops below the collar of Pete’s shirt, all breath and edges and _want_ dig into his neck. Patrick chuckles, something mean, something dirty, and Pete feels it echo down his skin.

Patrick says, "You're a real bitch, you know," canines sliding down and down and down.

Pete closes his eyes, stifles a scream into his fist when Patrick's teeth sink in, and feels the blood running down his chest as the bruise begins to form— stops thinking, somewhere through it.

Pete will wonder, later once the blood’s returned to his brain and run out the buzz left to stall in its place, if he’s left a pattern yet. If there’ll be any trace of himself left on Patrick’s skin when he finally decides it’s over.

Patrick moves with a purpose and Pete lets him have all of it, fingers wrapped in Patrick’s hair to pull him closer. Patrick bites, hard, and this time Pete can’t muffle his scream. He bites down on his fist hard enough to leave indentions, and feels Patrick smirk against his neck.

Patrick begins where Pete ends and it’s something catastrophic born between two bodies that Pete’s still trying to learn.

Eventually, Joe comes to get them for another round of interviews, and Patrick pulls back, wipes his mouth when he hears footsteps outside the closet. Pete pulls up his shirt, and Patrick helps adjust his collar to hide the marks.

When Pete walks out he feels a bit like a symbol as he watches Patrick smile and bump into Joe, feels the bites and bruises on his neck and chest start to burn when Andy’s shoulder brushes him on accident, but he isn’t sure what for.

 

.

 

 _Cork Tree_ burns up on ignition and it feels like the world’s watching it explode. They’ve got charts for twelve different countries, and still growing, tracking album sales and investments.

The van gets left for tour buses and sold out venues, and Patrick watches the numbers of their album sales rise after it hits the radio.

Joe whistles, says, “Fuck, dude. This shit could swallow you if you’d let it.” Patrick snorts.

Pete just watches, rubs at the bruises forming around his wrists. Patrick meets his eyes over the computer screen, a moment lost to the rest of the room, and Pete grins. The bruises on his neck are still burning when he presses them, and he curls into his spot on the couch.

Joe leans over to glance at the numbers again as Patrick’s attention snaps back, and Andy rolls his eyes before he jumps up for chips, telling them he’ll be back with a quick wave.

Pete laughs, wide smile on his face when Patrick makes a choked noise, eyes going wide at the multiplying numbers on the screen. Joe falls over the couch trying to see and Andy sighs when he walks back in to find them sprawled on the floor.

The album picks up speed, and then their names are sprawled over millions of track lists and CD’s when people starts asking for them to sign merchandise. When the invitations and mail start to flood in, everything starts to feel unreal again.

Patrick doesn’t question the closets the same way Pete doesn’t ask why he doesn’t. Pete sinks to his knees somewhere in a hotel near Indiana, and wakes up the next day with a black eye and bruised ribs- breathing a little easier.

 

.

 

They get invited to _Warped_ and it goes like this:

Sun and sweat and screaming until all their voices are sore and every inch of their bodies ache from shitty bus beds and seating.

In the midst of all the chaos, Mikey Way finds his way in, somehow, and before Pete’s aware of it the world is _Mikey_ wherever Patrick doesn’t want to fit into. Mickey’s sweet everywhere Patrick isn’t, flattened out edges and calm instead of angry, and he laughs when Pete tells him so.

“Weird living through a Patrick comparison,” Mikey says, a small smile curling on his lips. “But not opposed. Did I pass?”  
  
Mickey’s voice is slow and soft and a direct reflection of his movements when he leans back on the buses couch. There are no edges for Pete to prick himself on here, so Mikey doesn’t leave marks, but he also doesn’t question the ones fading across Pete.

Pete’s itching for teeth, but Mikey’s in front of him smiling soft, and he thinks he could make do.

Pete says, “Of course you did,” and it’s worth it for the way Mickey smiles.

It’s the summer of sunshine and Mikey Way, and Patrick doesn’t bring it up, but Pete does, tells him carefully about Mikey, chatting his ear off with praises and inside jokes he still wants to share. He rubs his wrists, careful and deliberate and tries to catch Patrick’s eye from his computer screen.

Patrick waves him off and doesn’t look up from his laptop when he says, “Sounds cool, Pete. Go have some fun with Mikey. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Pete doesn’t believe he means it the way he says it, but Pete does anyway just to see how far he can push himself past reckless. How long before Patrick decides he wants the space back.

Realistically, it should definitely change things- how Pete wears Mikey Way’s fucking shirt on stage when they perform, sticks to Mikey’s side, spends more time on _My Chemical’s_ bus than his own.

How when they do hook-up, Mikey’s careful like he’s afraid to break Pete, doesn’t realize he’s already broken. Pete takes and takes everything Mikey gives him, until he feels like he’s nothing but it. Acts like he won’t fall to his knees the moment Patrick calls him back.

It’s the summer of like and _MikeyWay,_ and the kids see it. The reporters and interviewers, too. Patrick doesn’t look twice. Patrick doesn’t touch until Pete _picks_ and _picks_ , and makes him look for himself.

Pete’s with Mikey on his bus, doesn’t pull away when he hears Patrick enter and head straight for his own bunk. Mikey leaves and Pete crawls into Patrick’s bunk, wraps his legs around Patrick’s hips and smiles. Patrick raises his eyebrows and picks up a bag of Joe’s chips to his left, says, “So, Mikey Way.”

Pete smiles, almost shows him the hickies he asked Mikey to leave, but braces his hands on Patrick’s shoulders instead, laughs and says, “Yep.” Pops the _p_ and winks _, “Mikey fucking Way._ Awesome, right?”

Patrick scoffs, but he’s smiling as he shifts Pete to the side, laughing when he falls beside him and latches onto his back. Patrick doesn’t bring it up again.

Nothing changes even when maybe it should, and that definitely means something, but Pete pulls Patrick in while he’s still smelling of Mikey at the end of a screaming summer, and doesn’t let himself think about it.

Something in Mikey’s smile when he finally breaks it off tells him he’s getting really good at it.

 

.

 

 _Warped_ ends and Patrick doesn’t act any different, so Pete follows suit.

Patrick starts composing their next album the night of the award show when their second loses to _My Chemical Romance’s_ latest. Patrick tucks himself straight into his hotel room, and Pete follows.

Patrick starts humming an unnamed chorus, tapping a rhythm out onto his knee the moment he sits down, and grabs the nearest notepad. Pete takes the place next to him and readjusts to the space.

“This one’s going to be good, Pete,” Patrick says, eyes bright and _burning burning burning_ in a way Pete can only ever imagine when he turns back to his journal. The lamp light pales Patrick’s face further, and Pete leans into his neck to feel his pulse, runs his cheek across it and closes his eyes, mouth slack against Patrick’s neck.

It’s the picture of intimacy and Patrick leans back into him, says, “This one’s going to win. I can feel it.”

He taps out the beginnings of a chorus onto Pete’s wrist, and he melds his mind to the pattern until it reads like forever.

 

.

 

Patrick writes with Pete’s heart between his teeth, and Pete’s pen tries to keep up- ends up overflowing, and Patrick takes it and breaks it into something.

Tours run together and the venues blend into each other. It’s another hotel, now, but it’s in Jersey this time, and Pete’s dry mouthed, blood rushing too loud. It's been a nearly nine hour bus ride and he pushes at Patrick's side for most of it, watched the veins in Patrick forehead like they were ready to burst.

Pete asks, _what’s so special about Jersey, anyway_?

Patrick scoffs, sets his suitcase to the side, and says, “Don’t let the Way brothers hear you." It's almost makes Pete bite his tongue. Pete’s good at almost.

He rolls on and says, “I’d rather hear you, instead," and likes the way Patrick flushes at it, eyes narrowed and a teenage temper he never really grew out of, but taught Pete how to play.

Pete pushes until Patrick gives- kisses like he’s trying to take, and Pete doesn’t tell him _you tastes like sunlight,_ but he thinks it and that probably counts for something.  
  
Kissing Patrick until his lips start to bruise and lungs start to shake probably counts for something too, but he doesn’t go looking for it. Not when Patrick’s eyes are lidded when he pulls back, and Pete can taste the way everything’s climbing _up up up_ on his tongue.  
  
He licks his lips and Patrick’s eyes follow, hand crawling up Pete’s throat slow like he’s waiting for permission, but they both know better than to think Patrick’s _asking._ Pete pulls back and closes his eyes, tries to carve himself in before he’s burnt out.

One of Patrick’s hands tangle in his hair and _pulls_ , a silent message to take a breath, while the other one spreads across his neck and squeezes until Pete is nothing but skin and air. The panic lasts a moment before it decipitates, and he feels like he’s been emptied out.

The room fades with the word and it’s all pressed down to this: Patrick’s hands around his throat and in his hair. Patrick the deciding factor between Pete and abyss. 

Pete arches when Patrick pulls him forward by his hair, the grip on his neck loosening as his lungs start to burn past their limit. He comes and Patrick’s the one to pull back. Pete’s too drunk on him to think about what that’s telling of.

Patrick nudges his side with an elbow, looking tired and turns on his side on the bed when he says, “Come on, Pete. Interview and show tomorrow, alright?”

They share the left bed and pretend Pete ever had any intention of using the right one. Pete sleeps through their first two alarms and wakes to purple and blue painted across his neck. He’s still smiling when he tucks into his hoodie.

Pete entertains through the interview, plays with the wording of every question until the interviewer looks at him like he’s charming instead of cynical, brushes the fading marks beneath his shirt.

He doesn’t look at Patrick.

After the video’s been edited and finally posted, he watches and sees that Patrick never looked at him, anyway. Later, when he’s on the ground with Patrick pinning him as he licks his way into Patrick’s mouth, he finds everything tastes wanting.

Pete buries the metaphors and pulls Patrick in tighter, tries to make the marks last longer.  
  
  
.  
  
  
_Grave_ turns into _Cork Tree_ turns into _Infinity_ , and before Pete knows it he has three selves strung out between 42 songs, waiting for a reason to show how many more he has left.  
  
The magazines call him _ambitious_ and the blogs call him _flighty._    
  
Patrick calls him _trouble_ when Pete’s tearing out of his skin, and watches him vibrate off stage long enough to scream his lungs out to the pit. Patrick stands in the doorway and waits for him to finish puking into a toilet bowl hard enough to feels his stomach muscles pulling from the strain.  
  
Patrick holds his jacket, pockets the pills Pete didn’t let him see until Patrick went looking for them, and says, “You’re running too fast, Pete. Slow down and wait for the rest of us, okay?”  
  
Pete almost laughs, thinks about telling him he’s not the one being left behind, that out of both of them Pete’s with the most to lose. But his heads still in the toilet bowl, and then Patrick’s out the door after he helps him onto the hotel bed, and Pete’s eyes are shut before it closes.

When Pete wakes up, hungover with a glass of water and too few pills crowding his nightstand, his stomach churns when he sees he’s still alone.

 

.

 

Patrick’s wrong, for the record.

 _Infinity_ doesn’t win any awards, but it does give Patrick ideas and a headfirst slide into the bitter edge he was only teetering on before.

The bruises come back, back with the fists and teeth and late night curses that he doesn’t inspect too closely. Patrick bites him down his back until it’s purple and blue, and Pete doesn’t have to ask for it. Most times, Pete thinks he begins wherever Patrick decides to place him back into his skin.

Pete thinks he loves _Infinity_ for that alone.

 

.

 

Pete writes and Patrick composes and then they have half of a new album a few months after their third one gets released.

Pete’s getting better at cutting his teeth and Patrick’s getting better at finding them. He wonders, belatedly, if it ever makes his kisses bloody. If Patrick ever pulls back from his skin and tastes something missing. Patrick says he’s a pretty bleeder and it’s almost enough to keep him sated.

Patrick doesn’t search him out unless Pete acts out for it- bitches or picks fights or takes over his space until Patrick makes him stop. Pete starts it and Patrick ends it, and it all tastes like something emptier, but he knows better than to say it. Not when Patrick’s a second away from leaving, writing something more _Infinity_ and less _Fall Out Boy._

Pete keeps his mouth closed, and Patrick gets used to kissing stitches.

 

.

 

They name the new album _Folie,_ and it’s a joke to those who are in on it. _Folie_ comes and it’s not what any of them want, but they have it anyway.

Pete’s prose runs away from him and taze Patrick’s tongue with every syllable, and in return each chord of his bass burns back up Pete’s fingers.

 _Folie’s_ more of an explosion of creation than a stream, less _Cork Tree_ explosion and even lower than _Infinity—_ a mix of poorly colliding ideas and fights tied into an album with a pretty package and their name on it.

Critiques say there’s no pride in it like there was for _Infinity._ Pete doesn’t read the ones comparing the lyric between _Folie_ and _Cork Tree._ Joe reads one, though, and laughs, shakes his head when Pete asks, and says, “Oh no, trust me. You really don’t want to know.”

Andy says, “It’s not funny, really,” but Joe doesn’t stop laughing and Pete doesn’t stop picking out the little notes of anger and exhaustion. It isn’t a fun game, but it’s one he’s playing. He wishes he knew how to stop.

Patrick doesn’t read any reviews and it still doesn’t spare him. Kids start _booing_ at their shows when they try _Folie_ and Patrick’s face flashes somewhere between anger and humiliation before Joe’s switching chords back to something from _Cork Tree._

Pete takes his time with the transition, slips his fingers slow and misses a few notes, smiles when the kids in the front _boo._

Pete’s teeth are gleaming and the world’s stopped watching. Patrick says they don’t matter, and Pete wants to ask him who fed him that one. He holds back when he realizes it was probably him, and looks away before he can see the nerves rise on his face.

Andy says everyone likes their own stories better than the one’s _Fall Out Boy_ is giving them.

 _Folie_ falls, and Pete doesn’t call it a fail because that’s all Patrick does, and none of them want to be like Patrick right now. None of them want to be each other when it’s almost all they are, and it makes everything worse.

The foundation starts to crack away and the tatters rip at the seams where Pete tries to pin them back together. _Hiatus_ becomes a sweeter term than _break_ , as in it sticks itself to the teeth and makes them ache in a sugar bitter spin that doesn’t go away. 

The end arrives in a pretty packaged red album with a bow on top, and there’s a lot of ways Pete wants to fracture it- a party, a plea, something crying its way into a message, something that will make Patrick less angry and ready to leave.

Instead, Patrick books solo studio time and tells them halfway through tour, over glasses of peach vodka and a smile that’s more sure than shy. Joe and Andy congratulate him once the shock wears off.

Pete has five drinks, careful of the bites littering his wrist under his shirt, and decides he hates the way apologies tastes.

When he pulls Patrick into the bar’s bathroom and tries to misplace the impending, neither of them call it a goodbye the same way no one calls the bruises on Pete’s neck the next morning an apology. 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus point if you guess which albums/songs i wrote this to. I’ve been waiting to write some more unhealthy relationship/coping fic, and so now there’s this. 
> 
> Thanks for readings! Comments and Kudos are very much appreciated, and I'm rhymesofblau on tumblr.


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